Forbidden Fire of Desire

A Little Letter

Lo and I are well suited. For her, the world is a tinderbox and she lightning. She’s a spark; I an old cinder, a dimming ember. Together, our love is a fire — the flame of Prometheus or, more aptly, Lucifer (the light bearer). In both those stories fire — that terrible tool and symbol of knowledge — is conferred to humanity by an act of transgression that leads to transformation. Fire, like the Greek pharmakon, is an equivocal symbol. Pharmakon, translated neutrally as “drug,” can mean either “medicine” or “poison.” Fire, like the knowledge it represents, can be either boon or bane. And just like a drug or the fire of desire, the love that Lo and I share is equally unstable in its consuming power. Does it sustain us, or will it destroy us?

Lo, like I, has her deviant side. She relishes the subversive. She seeks the line in the sand, only to scatter it. She plays with the fire for fun, knowing full well that she might get burned. But like the juggler who tosses merely batons, she becomes bored if there isn’t the added element of danger created by igniting the gasoline-dipped ends of the batons. Yes, she wants to be “a good girl,” and she presents to the world her sweet face. But, deep down she knows she’s a bad, bad girl and she can’t escape her pyromania.

After I nixed the idea of having Hunter over our house, Lo chimed in her 2¢ in a quick e-mail to Hunter:

I’m thinking about how, when we can meet again and with HH’s permission, I could manage to seduce you into a hotel room for a hot massage. If you say your abs, neck, and nether regions are sensitive, I’d have a whole titillating map of your body in my mind to play with, traveling south with my fingers, nails, lips and teeth.

I can’t wait for your cock to come out, aching for the attention of my hungry mouth. You know, I’m a cock-hungry whore and a cum-thirsty slut. What would it be like for you, I wonder, to have your cock sucked by a woman while her boyfriend can see her? — to cum all over her face and glasses, fingers wrapped in her hair, moaning in climax, while, in the background, you hear the pages of his newspaper turning, the ice of his drink clinking, as the only attention he pays is to remind her of what a trollop she is, and to thank you for taking care of her for him? What would it be like if, in the face of her sloshing wet pussy, he was stoic, and let you have at her — giving her meat like a zoo-keeper feeding a hungry lioness?

[Excerpt from the story, “Silver Fox, Mynx, and the Hunter — Part VII: Criminally Minded” and “Silver Fox, Mynx, and the Hunter — Part VIII: Great Sexpectations,” from the blog:]

Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail:

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